


Lay Me Low

by dirigibleplumbing



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Breathplay, Choking, Come Eating, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Face-Fucking, Falanga, Frottage, Hurt No Comfort, Hydra Steve Rogers, Injury, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Rape, Secret Empire (Marvel), Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28161234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirigibleplumbing/pseuds/dirigibleplumbing
Summary: On the last day Tony remembers, Steve made Tony's dreams come true by showing Tony that they’re soulmates. But Tony’s just woken from a coma with memories missing, and Steve refuses to disclose what happened during the time Tony’s forgotten. Even though Steve says he still wants Tony, Tony can tell he’s hiding more than what Tony can’t remember—and Tony is determined to learn what.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 38
Kudos: 79
Collections: It will never get better, Stony's Sad Secret Santa 2020





	Lay Me Low

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Firelightmystic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firelightmystic/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Firelightmystic! I had so much fun diving into the darkness in your tags and prompt. I hope this makes you suffer in just the way you wanted. 
> 
> A million thanks to my alpha/beta reader, Sapphic_Futurist! ([Ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphic_Futurist/pseuds/Sapphic_Futurist), [tumblr](https://sapphic-futurist.tumblr.com/)) When I sent this off, no one else had read a single bit of it and I had no idea how it would read to another person. Your comments, edits, and suggestions brought me clarity and the encouragement I needed to post my first ever darkfic. 
> 
> More details (with spoilers) about the warnings in the end notes.
> 
> Now with a cover:   
> 

Tony's mouth is dry and his brain feels singed at the edges in a way he associates with painkillers and magic. A cold liquid drips from an IV into the crook of each elbow. Instead of the faint smell of hydrogen peroxide that he associates with hospitals and infirmaries, he's hit by the stench of ammonia. He blinks his eyes open. His gaze falls to his arms; there are markings scattered across them. In what looks like black greasepaint, sigils, circles, and shapes are written over all of the skin visible to him. His fogged brain tries to latch onto what the scent of ammonia reminds him of, and then he looks up and the thought flies from him because Steve is sitting at his bedside. 

"Hey," Steve says softly. He isn't quite smiling. The chair he's in looks comfortable, not like what you usually find in hospitals. Tony wonders how long he's been sitting there, or how often. "How're you feeling?" 

"I'm not sure," Tony says, more because of the way Steve is looking at him than because of the drugged haze of his mind. He can't make sense of the expression on Steve's face, though he should be able to. 

Okay. He has enough information to form some conclusion about what's happening right now. The symbols on his skin are probably the source of the magical after-effects he's still feeling, and possibly part of the reason he's awake. Or alive. Steve's in his uniform, which could mean any number of things. That he's just come from a mission, or about to head to one, that he has business or wants to be able to pretend to have business to attend to. That talking to Tony _is_ his mission. 

Beside Steve's chair is an end table, a wooden one that looks like it was plucked from the same living room as the plush armchair. The room they're in is small and private, the door shut, and it reminds Tony of the helicarrier, and it smells like ammonia— 

"What's the last thing you remember?" Steve asks.

Tony's heart clenches. He can certainly draw conclusions from a question like that. "We were in DC," he says, watching Steve's face. "You were with Spider-Man and I was fighting Carol." He swallows; it's an unpleasant sensation in his dry throat. "That's not right, is it?"

Steve's always been easy to read. 

"That makes sense," Steve says, voice tight. "That was right before you—" He cuts himself off. His eyes are unfocused, and Tony wonders just how long it took for Tony to ruin everything between them. Again. 

Fighting Carol is, strictly speaking, the very last thing Tony remembers. But all he can think of now is what happened before Steve left for DC.

When Steve had cornered him for a conversation, Tony knew with dread and certainty that Steve was going to tell him he was wrong about Ulysses. That he should listen to Carol.

 _Did you mean it?_ Steve had asked. _When you said you would trust me, and what I decided. Did you mean it?_

 _Yes_ , Tony had said, because he'd learned the hard way what it costs him to lie to Steve. 

Tony knew with every fiber of his being that what Carol was doing was wrong. That Ulysses' visions were nothing more or less than profiling. That trusting them had led to the deaths of two of his dearest friends. But if Steve told him to stand down, Tony would. And that frightened him—both the certainty of it, and the knowledge that innocents would die.

Steve had chewed on his lip, hesitating, then said, _There's something I want to show you_.

Tony's assent must have shown on his face, because Steve had barely finished speaking before he was tugging off the glove of his right hand. Tony froze, heart racing. For that action to follow that statement—but Steve couldn't be showing him what Tony hoped. Except Steve was folding the sleeve of his uniform back, and there was his wrist cuff beneath it, and—

Tony had nearly shut his eyes, then, an impulse governed by the part of him that abided by the mores of polite society, but he couldn't have torn his gaze away, even if he'd wanted to, because there could only be one reason Steve was doing this, there couldn't be another, it had to be—and then Steve was taking that off, too—

"What happened that I don't remember?" Tony asks.

For the first time since Tony's woken, Steve's eyes leave his. "I don't know if I should tell you." 

"How much time am I missing?" He doesn't say _this time_. 

Steve shakes his head minutely.

"Are we—" Tony doesn't know how to finish that thought. Or he's too much of a coward to try. "What did I do?" 

Steve sits up straighter in his chair, shaking his head a little. He doesn't reply.

"C’mon, just get it over with."

"I—it's difficult to talk about," Steve says after a moment. "It was—a lot of people have died. Las Vegas is" —he takes a deep breath, as if readying himself to say what's next— "gone." 

There's an ache behind Tony's eyes that threatens to manifest as tears. He clenches his fists, then forcibly relaxes them. His gaze falls on the symbols written onto his skin. All he has on is a thin hospital gown, and the cuff on his left wrist covering his soulmark. It's plain, old-fashioned in style—nearly a twin to the one Steve had been wearing the day Tony's dreams had come true. The last day he remembers.

"I was going to be on your side," Tony says. On the back of his hand, a line runs through the center of a series of diamonds, arcs, and triangles. The shape in the middle is smudged. "I can't fight you again." It sounds less like a statement and more like he's trying to convince himself. 

When Tony looks up, Steve’s staring at Tony's wrist. Tony's eyes dart away, his face heating. "I learned my lesson," Tony says with more force. 

"Which time?" Steve asks. The hard expression in his eyes belies his mild tone.

Tony jerks. He deserves that, but it still lands on him like a punch to his solar plexus. "The last time," he says. His eyes fall back to his lap. There's a blank space on his right wrist where no symbols are inscribed, with a pink imprint circling his skin at either end. He wonders why he'd had to be restrained, and how long ago it was. If he woke before, too drugged or too in pain to notice. If he had nightmares. Or if it predates his time here, recovering from whatever-it-is. "The last time I remember," he amends, hating himself.

"I have to go." Steve stands all at once, with a speed he usually reserves for battle. "I know you have a lot of questions, and I'll try to answer them." Once, Steve would've followed that by reminiscing about the questions Tony answered for him when he first came out of the ice. Instead there's a beat where such a memory could be spoken aloud, and isn't. "I'll be here the next time you wake up. I promise."

He's out the door before Tony can reply. Tony doesn't see how Steve can promise that, when Tony doesn't even know how he'll fall asleep, let alone how long he can stay that way. 

But it's Steve. He wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it.

There's a glass of water on the table. Tony takes the glass and brings the straw to his lips, relishing as the cool water hits his tongue. His arm is shaking; the glass feels much too heavy. He sets it down.

His narrow bed is practically identical to dozens of others he's awoken in in hospitals, labs, and infirmaries all over the world. Except those beds had had call buttons. This one has a small panel with controls to raise or lower the head of the bed, and an outlet with a USB port next to it. Nothing else. 

The outlet highlights the conspicuous absence of any phones, tablets, or computers. Steve must not want him to learn what he’s missed from the news. Tony remembers sitting up in a bed like this one, in Oklahoma, what feels like a lifetime ago, and reading headlines calling him a fascist and a monster. Accusing him of rolling out the red carpet to let Skrull ships into Earth's airspace. Blaming him for Steve's death. 

He wonders what the press is saying about him now. 

"Can I talk to someone?" Tony calls. Steve closed the door behind him, but Tony’s voice should be loud enough to carry. The silence that follows reminds Tony that he hasn't heard any footsteps from outside the room, nor an intercom. "Hello!" he says, as loud as he can.

He tilts one of the IV poles so he can see the bag up close. There are no markings on it. He does the same with the other, but it's just as blank.

If he pulls out one of the IVs, an alarm will go off on one of the machines monitoring him. That's usually enough to bring a medical professional in, to check that he's getting enough of whatever fluids or medications he's been prescribed. There's probably a computer somewhere that monitors that sort of thing, even if the beeping isn't audible to anyone nearby. Should he take one out? He has no way of knowing what drugs they’re piping into him, or how much. Maybe he can jostle one enough to set off the machines, and then reinsert it himself.

What if no one comes? 

Steve wouldn't leave him somewhere with no one to look after him. Not if there was any choice. Even if Steve hated him, he wouldn't deny anyone medical care. And whatever Tony's done, whatever Steve thinks of him, he was here, and he was speaking to Tony, and he promised he'd be back. That's more than when Tony woke up in Oklahoma.

Tony lifts one arm—even doing that taxes his weakened muscles—and brings one of the symbols on his skin up to his nose. The exertion leaves him a little light-headed. The paint smells resiny, almost like turpentine. If he wipes away some of the markings, will it affect the spell? Will whatever practitioner placed them there be able to tell? He lets his arm fall and leans over to take another sip of water. He must be trying to move too fast, because he feels dizzy. Deep, slow breaths. Slow sips. Inhale, exhale. In. Out.

The scent of ammonia hits him again, and he can tell he's fading, can feel the stifling wrapped-in-clouds sensation of painkillers, but he knows that means something, reminds him of something. AIM labs tend to have that singed, methane-flavored scent of Bunsen burners and oxy-fuel. On Skrull ships, you get either the earthy, faintly fungal smell of Skrull exertion, or the sulfuric hints of whatever they use as a cleaning product. Hala smells a little like New York, Tony thinks, or tries to; his brain feels like an unwieldy gastropod oozing into the corners of his skull. Right. Hala. Petrichor and a hint of sewage. The Mandarin's facilities always have a tinge of burnt ozone, which Tony attributes to something about either Makluan technology or the Mandarin's replication of it. And ammonia—ammonia makes him think of blood and the sound of automatic weapons and—and—

Tony falls back against his pillow, the painkillers dragging him under.

* * *

Consciousness returns swaddled in oppressive layers of cotton; Tony's mouth is dry, and when he opens his eyes, those are dry too. In his peripheral vision he catches Steve snatching his arm away, like he'd had his hand beside Tony's and has drawn it back now that Tony's awake. But Steve's here, like he said he would be, and even though Tony has to turn and tilt his neck awkwardly to keep Steve in view properly, he thinks Steve almost looks happy to see him. 

"Steve," he says before he can hold onto any other thoughts.

"I'm here."

Rather than look at Steve, Tony turns his attention on the little panel attached to his bed frame. He presses the button to tilt the head of the bed so that he’s practically sitting up. His head is closer to the height of Steve's now. Fiddling with the controls, avoiding Steve's eye, is easier than blurting out every need thought that enters his mind. And, well. Tony knows he's a coward. Steve certainly knows that too.

"Feeling any better than before?"

Steve's trying, Tony tells himself. That's all that this stilted conversation means: Steve doesn't know what to say either, or how to go on, but he's here and he's trying. "The painkillers haven't worn off yet," Tony says. It reminds him of how thirsty he is. There's a fresh glass on the end table, condensation still forming on its surface. He reaches for it and takes a strip through the swirly straw. It's something Steve would've brought him back in the early days, when Iron Man had a secret identity and could only eat and drink through the slit in the faceplate. 

"I'm sure you have questions," Steve says.

Tony forces his face into blankness and turns to meet Steve's gaze. "Can you tell me why the—was I injured?" 

Steve's expression goes tight and tense, but he nods. "You were in a coma."

"And I'm awake because of" —Tony points at a Fibonacci spiral near his elbow— "magic?" The IVs are gone, their insertion points blotted with cotton balls and sealed with medical tape.

"It was necessary," Steve replies, "after whatever you did to yourself. You might have stayed unconscious forever, otherwise."

"How long was I in a coma?"

"Too long."

Tony almost says, _And you wanted to bring me back?_ but he can't bring himself to make Steve say it. It should be self-evident that Steve wanted him back. Steve's here, Steve's the only one here, and Tony doesn't want to dwell too much on why there's no one else, but he's getting the idea that Steve oversaw whatever it was that woke Tony up. 

"Do—does the team need me?" he asks instead, because even when his friends hate him, they'll do what's necessary to help people. Even if it means involving Tony. 

"We always need you," Steve says immediately, and it sounds like _I need you_. Or it could.

"Are you—" Tony starts, then stops himself. _Are you and I—_ he can't even finish the question in his own mind. "Are you okay, Steve? It sounds like it's been—difficult."

Another not-quite smile. "I'm getting better." Tony must look skeptical because Steve leans in several millimeters, so slightly he must not realize he's doing it, and says, "Really, Tony. I'm alright. I'm worried about you." 

Worried about what Tony might do, no doubt. "What did I do? What don't I remember?"

"Can we talk about it later?" Steve asks. He sounds tentative, unlike himself. He's usually so big in his fury. 

Tony wonders if the yelling will come during this nebulous _later_. Maybe Steve wants Tony at full strength before punching him in the face; Steve has funny ideas about fairness like that. "Of course." He catches himself chewing on his lip and tries to smooth out any expression on his face. "Were we, are you and I" —he tries not to hesitate, but he falters— "together?"

He can't bear to be any more specific. 

"I want us to be," Steve says.

He could mean _I want us to be on the same side of a fight_. Or _I want to be on the same team again_. Maybe Steve can't bear to be more specific, either.

It doesn't have to mean what Tony wants it to mean. But, if nothing else, Steve wants to work together. 

Maybe that's why Tony has the courage to say, "Steve, I want to be with you. I don't know what I did that might've—that hurt you. But if you'll let me, I want to try again. To have a real relationship." 

The small smile on Steve's face reaches his eyes this time.

"Whatever I did, let me make it up to you. Let me show you what you mean to me. You've given me so many chances, and I don't deserve another one, but I—you must know." Tony's voice breaks, and Steve reaches out and rests his hand on Tony's. It grounds him; he's here, in this bed, magic symbols written on his skin, and he failed, and Steve is here anyway. "I always hoped you carried my name the way I carry yours, but I—I never believed you could." 

Did Tony see Steve's mark once before? Steve had died a prisoner of SHIELD, and Tony had been director. Did he look? Would he violate Steve's privacy like that, knowing what he found would hurt him either way? 

What else doesn’t Tony remember doing?

"Everything I've done, I did to keep you safe. I thought even if I wasn't yours, you were mine, and I wanted to protect you. And I know I did it all wrong, and I thought I knew—I thought I'd learned that I can't do that, can't do anything right, without you by my side. When you showed me—" There aren't words for how Tony felt in that moment, when Steve bared his soulmark to him. He'd thought he understood everything, then. "When I knew that I was your soulmate, I swore to myself I'd never act without you again." 

Steve looks at him with an unnameable intensity. His eyes search Tony's face and his grip tightens on Tony's hand. A spike of fear shoots up Tony's spine, though what he's frightened of, he can't say. "Do you mean that?"

"I'm on your side for good," Tony says. "No matter what. Please. I don't know why I did—whatever I did, why I thought it could go any other way, but I won't—I _can't_ —do it again." 

"No matter what," Steve repeats slowly, mouth moving like he's tasting every word.

"Let me try. Let me show you."

"Promise me," Steve says, one arm going around Tony's shoulders, pulling their bodies closer. "Promise you'll stand with me." 

"I promise," Tony says. It doesn't matter how desperate he sounds as long as Steve believes him. "Please. I won't fight you again, I can't. I can't. Even if you say no, even if you don't touch me or speak to me again, I promise." 

Steve's eyes, blue as gemstones, are locked on Tony. Steve takes a breath in a deep gust. He leans in even further, but he's still waiting for something. 

"I trust you, Steve Rogers," Tony says, and Steve draws them together and kisses him.

It's like falling from a great height. Tony's heart is in his throat. As much as it feels like they did this only yesterday, it also feels like Tony would never get to do this again.

Tony's lips and mouth are still too dry, and leaning the way he is stretches the limits of his weakened muscles, but Steve has a hand on the back of Tony's neck, Steve is holding him, Steve is hot and wet and solid. 

He scoops Tony into his arms, barely pausing to break away from the kiss, and carries him down several hallways. When he stops, they’re in a suite of rooms, and Steve sets him down on a bed with a blue bedspread. Tony’s head swims. Steve runs his hands all over Tony, pressing into Tony like he’s trying to keep him from crumbling. He undresses them both and pins Tony to the mattress while he fucks him. Steve says he wants to see Tony’s face, which Tony has imagined him saying so many times. He uses Tony harshly, and Tony’s imagined that, too. He comes, and Tony can feel the pulse inside him. He’s never done this without a condom—not that he remembers. Steve barely pauses, rolling onto his back and taking Tony with him, taking Tony by his hip and wrapping another hand around his dick, his own cock still hard, driving into him from below. He holds Tony up so Tony can ride him. It’s draining and dizzying but it’s worth it for Steve. Tony doesn’t look away until he throws his head back and stifles a cry. Steve follows soon after, pulsing and grunting, taking in Tony’s thin, sweat-sheened body, the mess still dripping down his abdomen, never letting his eyes fall shut. 

* * *

In the morning, Tony’s head is nearly clear. He tugs Steve to the edge of the bed and then sinks to his knees and takes Steve in his mouth. Steve holds Tony by the back of the neck. Tony’s not sure what makes it feel possessive. And hasn’t he always wanted to belong to Steve? 

When he finishes, Steve lifts Tony into his lap and kisses him, licking his own spend out of Tony’s mouth. 

When Tony comes out from the shower, there’s a plate of croissants and a carafe of steaming coffee on a small table, and Steve’s dressed, sitting on the bed and poring through a pile of paper copies. Tony doesn’t have anything to do but eat, and after that to linger over his coffee and watch Steve. He used to think about being with Steve like this, though when he pictured it, Tony was working and Steve was his audience. In Tony’s imagination, Steve was drawing Tony—his attention focused entirely on Tony, even when Tony was distracted.

Tony tries to see Steve as an artist would. He tries to flatten his perception into two dimensions, carves it up according to lightness and darkness. Here a patch of sun, here a shadow, here a highlight of molten gold haloing his head. 

Tony waits until Steve’s packed the last file away, where Tony can’t see them, before he comes to sit beside him and say, “What were you working on?” 

“I’m in charge of SHIELD. More or less,” Steve says, and kisses him rather than reply further. 

When he pulls away, mouth wet and kiss-bruised, he suggests they have lunch. 

After they eat, Tony says, “Can you tell me what city we’re above right now?” and Steve reaches out and holds Tony by his wrist, resting his skin against Tony’s soulmark. 

The cliche is to compare the feeling of your soulmate touching your mark to sex or orgasming. But that’s wrong, Tony thinks, humming in satisfaction. It’s a sensation of satedness—satisfied, languid, post-coital. Instead of urgent and anticipatory, it’s steady and joyful. Tony’s gotten sparks of it in Steve’s presence before, lit ashes spit out by fire. Now the heat is constant, blooming out of that point of contact to the rest of his body. 

They sit in bed and watch one of Steve’s old movies. Steve makes microwave popcorn. After the second film, Tony asks, “Don’t you have an organization to run?” and Steve pins him to the wall and undoes Tony’s robe. 

Tony’s still sore from the night before. More importantly, Steve’s using sex to distract him. 

Tony decides to let him. 

Steve draws out the foreplay this time, giving Tony time to explore Steve’s body, too, until Tony’s tasted all his favorite nooks and crannies, his back is lined with rosy scratches, and his skin is lit up like a circuit. Steve’s slow preparing him, too, like he knows Tony needs gentleness there. He positions Tony head down, ass up, and fucks him hard and fast. 

Steve doesn’t leave the room for more than a few minutes at a time, to get food or to conduct fast, furtive conversations at the door, his body blocking Tony from seeing who he’s speaking to. Tony can’t remember the last time they spent this much time together, just the two of them, for anything other than Avengers business. Maybe they never did. Maybe that’s another memory he’s lost forever. 

After dinner, Tony says, “Why was I in a coma?” 

Steve’s kiss is no surprise this time, and no less delicious for it. He takes both their cocks in hand and tugs them to completion, his mouth still on Tony’s when they come. Steve’s still hard after that, and begs Tony to take him in his mouth again. He comes twice more like that, clutching Tony’s biceps nearly hard enough to bruise, whispering about all the things he’s imagined them doing. 

* * *

The next day Steve says he does have to get back to work, but will be back to have lunch with Tony later. Tony plays the part Steve wants him to; he smiles, and says he’ll miss Steve but of course Steve has to go, he’s so lucky Steve has spent all this time with him, and really, Tony’s recovering, he needs to rest. And everything he says is true. 

He follows Steve to the door, and watches out of his peripheral vision as Steve punches a code into a keypad by the door. The sequence is just nine characters long, but there are both letters and numbers; there’s a lot of room for error, and without concentrating on it, Tony can’t be sure he has all of it right. 

“Any requests for lunch?” 

“Surprise me,” Tony says, and kisses the corners of Steve’s mouth. “I’m just happy to be with you.” 

“Me too,” Steve says, and squeezes Tony’s left wrist, hard enough that it twinges even after Steve’s gone, pain alongside the buzz of his soulmate touching his mark.

By now, Tony knows that Steve’s hiding something. Supposedly, all he’s hiding is everything that happened that Tony can’t remember. Steve’s hints suggest that he’s justified in not wanting to, and that he knows he can’t hold off on telling Tony forever. 

The thing is: that’s not all he’s hiding. Tony can tell. Steve’s better at lying than Tony remembers him ever being, but Tony knows his tells. And Tony, thanks to Steve, has nothing to do but sit, and wait; lie down, and think about Steve, pace around Steve’s room, and wait. For Steve. 

Tony could ask. He _should_. That’s what a good partner would do. Tony could do it the right way—gentle, understanding, patient—and let Steve decide if and how to answer. They can acknowledge the fact that there are things Steve thinks he needs to keep secret from Tony. Get it out in the open instead of letting it fester. Set an example for openness, even about the things they hide. 

Tony’s not going to ask. 

That doesn’t mean he can’t find out. 

* * *

A search of Steve’s rooms reveals nothing, not that Tony expected anything different. What’s weird isn’t the absence of evidence, it’s the absence of anything at all. There are no books, photos, sketchbooks. It’s like an empty apartment on the helicarrier was given the window dressings of a place Steve would live—a big American flag on one wall, a single framed photo of the Avengers. There isn’t even a spare pair of boots for Tony to wear.

It could be nothing. Everything could be just as Steve’s said. Except Tony thinks he might remember what the smell of ammonia reminds him of. 

He opens the panel for the security system locking the door. Without specialized tools, there’s no good way to make the door open without setting off alarms. And the last thing he needs is for Steve to know he’s sneaking around behind his back, looking for answers Steve doesn’t want to give. 

So Tony replaces the panel and returns to the analog novel Steve him with. Steve comes back for lunch, like he said he would. He talks about his morning in vague terms, enough to chat about, but not enough to reveal what he’s doing or where they are. 

“What can I do to help?” Tony asks when the conversation gives him an opening. “You don’t have to give me details, but there must be something I can do, for the survivors of Vegas, or—” 

“Later,” Steve says, voice quiet. He takes Tony’s wrist. “Please. I missed you. Let me just have you to myself a little while longer?” 

“Of course,” Tony finds himself saying. “Of course. Anything you want.” 

It turns out what Steve wants is to bend Tony over the bed, slick himself up, and fuck between his thighs. He bites Tony’s shoulder when he comes, drawing blood, and laps it up as he starts thrusting again. 

“Lemme—” Tony tries to say, but Steve shifts his weight so Tony can’t find his feet. Steve covers his mouth with one hand and drives against him harder than before. He hoists Tony higher by one hip, so that Tony’s feet scrabble to find purchase, while Steve boxes him in with his legs and weight, keeping his thighs pressed tight around Steve’s cock. 

He shouldn’t have to remind himself that he’s always dreamed of Steve wanting him this much. 

Steve comes twice more before he takes his hand off Tony’s mouth and collapses over him, resting his weight on his own arms so he doesn’t crush Tony under him. He uses Tony’s head as a pillow for his own. Tony shifts as much as he can, finally getting his feet under him. Steve never so much as rested a hand on Tony’s cock. Tony’s not even sure he got hard. 

“Are you,” Tony begins, speaking into the mattress, letting the thorough embrace of Steve’s weight buoy him. He wants this, he wants Steve’s touch, his attention, the press of his body, just like this. He wants it. His strained legs twitch from exertion. “You’re angry with me. Because of whatever I did that I can’t remember.” 

“No,” Steve says into Tony’s hair. “No. I want to protect you.” 

“What?” 

“It’s awful out there. I’m not ready for what knowing will do to you.” 

That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not how Steve thinks. But before Tony can say so, Steve is on his feet, putting his clothes back on. It’s all Tony can do to grab a robe and trail after him as he heads to the door. Tony’s still covered in lube and come and his own sweat, and his thighs tremble as he hurries to catch Steve entering his code again. 

Steve cups Tony’s cheek and kisses him so sweetly that Tony believes, for the length of time Steve’s mouth is pressed against his, that Steve isn’t angry with him at all. 

Tony spends too long in the shower, standing under the spray long after he’s clean. His legs ache, the bite on his shoulder twinges, he’s still weak from being in a coma, not to mention the soreness from Steve fucking him. None of that is close to enough to worry Steve with, though. 

Tony’s fought through much worse. 

Steve’s _done_ much worse, himself, to Tony. Tony entertains the thought that this is what Steve is hung up on—misplaced guilt over their past fights and fear of repeating them now if Tony learns why he did whatever he did—then discards it. 

What’s more likely is that Tony’s suspicions are true, and Steve is in an impossible situation, trying to shield Tony from the truth of the danger they’re both in. 

Tony dries off and dresses again. He’s going to be wandering the helicarrier in socks, sweatpants, and the t-shirt Steve wore yesterday. 

He enters the code into the keypad and steps out into the empty hallway. His footsteps will be quiet this way. He’ll be careful. Whatever’s happening, he won’t end up in a fight. He’s going to learn what’s happening, and get back to Steve’s room before anyone knows he’s gone. 

* * *

Panic wars with denial as Tony races down the corridor. 

Steve is—no, the man pretending to be Steve, it can’t be Steve, this is nothing like Steve—Hydra. He’s Hydra’s Supreme Leader. He’s—the things he’s done—the atrocities he’s committed in Steve’s name—

Tony's not missing memories at all. He was in a coma because of the fight with Carol, not because of anything he did to himself.

He's a fool. He was duped so easily. Of course it wasn’t Steve who pulled Tony aside and showed Tony his soulmark. Hydra must’ve faked that somehow. It’s not supposed to be possible, but they did this to Steve and brought back Tony from injuries that should’ve left him dead; they have the resources to fake a soulmark, surely. 

_Did you mean it?_ _When you said you would trust me, and what I decided. Did you mean it?_

They need Tony for something, so Tony has to get out of here. Now. 

Instead he turns a corner and skitters to a halt in front of a dozen men in Hydra uniforms. 

He gives his all, such as it is, and gets a few hits in. He knees one of the men in the groin, and he thinks he breaks another’s nose. He even snags a gun out of a harness and gets a few shots off before he’s overpowered. One is a kill shot, right through the head. The others go wild as he’s tackled to the ground. 

The fight is over quickly. They must have orders not to shoot, because they don’t even draw their guns. In a different time and place, Tony could use that to win, or at least escape. But he’s drained. He just learned that Steve, the best of all of them, is gone, and Tony’s been sleeping with the monster who replaced him. 

Tony stays quiet while they beat him. He holds back grunts of pain as steel-toed boots slam into his ribs. When he tries to curl into a ball to protect himself, they pry him open, one person holding down each of his limbs while the others get their hits in, bashing their boots into his gut. 

“Stop.” Steve’s voice. Steve’s here. 

Steve’s here, but he’s not Steve. 

They stop. 

“Bring him to me.” 

Tony’s not ready for this. He’d rather they go back to kicking him. 

They hoist him onto his feet, pinning his arms behind his back, and half-carry to Steve. They shove him down so he lands, hard, on his knees, and tug his head back so he’s looking up at Steve. 

Like he could look anywhere else. Steve’s wearing a Hydra uniform, and he smirks down at Tony. “I thought I’d have another day or two before you figured it out.” 

Tony refuses to let this man see him crying. He’s seen enough of Tony already. 

“Still on my side for good?” Steve says. 

“Fuck you,” Tony bites out, surging and twisting against the hands gripping him. 

“But Tony,” Steve says, taking hold of Tony’s chin, “you promised.” He doesn’t sound hurt or angry. He sounds smug. 

“You’re not Steve. I’m on his side. Not yours.” 

“Of course I’m Steve. I’m your soulmate.” 

Tony stays silent, but the effort of it shows on his face. 

“ _He_ was never real,” Steve says, voice harsh and cold. “Did you really think you could be _his_ soulmate?” 

Tony’s been asking himself that question. But now he’s on his knees in front of the Hydra Supreme Leader, hearing it in Steve’s voice. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He knows he sounds wrecked. It matters to him, and there’s no hiding that, but there’s more at stake here than Tony’s feelings. “He’s going to stop you. And I’m not going to work for you. Whatever you want me to design or build or code. I won’t.” 

The grip on Tony’s chin tightens. Steve leans in and smiles. “Yes, you will.” 

* * *

Steve’s men take Tony to a concrete cell that reeks of ammonia. Four of them stay behind. One has a cane. Another has a leather case that he opens, showing off what’s inside—sharp, blunt, hooked, shiny, dull. It’s meant to intimidate him. It works. 

They shove him to the floor, his legs straight out in front of him. His wrists are shackled. His ankles they chain to an iron bar that’s bolted to the floor. He knows that’s so he can’t twist away from blows to the soles of his feet. 

The men talk amongst themselves as they work. The one with the loudest voice also has the most to say about their task. He ponders what will be the most painful, debilitating, humiliating. 

“Hammer to his fingers,” the man suggests. “I want to see him take _that_.” He has a particular fixation on flaying Tony alive. “Sharp knife. Or a dull one. Maybe a potato peeler. Or just a bullwhip. String him up and go at it.” His laughter, though, is a joyful chortle—it should be the laugh of a kinder man. 

Tony closes his eyes and imagines he doesn’t have a body. 

They take turns flogging the vaults of his feet, first with a switch, then a cane, and he cries out after barely a minute. He bites his tongue and tries to sink into the part of his mind that severs him from sensation, but he can’t. He knows it’s only going to get worse. Other parts of the body adapt to impacts. The soles of the feet don’t. 

Each piercing strike radiates through his entire body. A man with a heavy dagger crouches behind him, holding him up by the shoulders. The hilt digs into Tony’s flesh, the blade large in Tony’s vision. The hits don’t falter, but neither do they fall into a rhythm, never giving him time to brace himself, striking again when his body starts to sag. 

The man using the cane now is less precise than the others. He wants the pain to last. A strike lands on the balls of Tony’s feet, then another across his heels, and Tony hears bones cracking. The next blow lands millimeters from the last, as if to ensure the bone is fractured. 

He’s shaking when they free his ankles. He stays quiet while they hold him down and the one with the dagger slices lines into his skin, but he jerks away when it nicks his nipple. The men laugh. When he bleeds through his shirt, they cut it off. Each break in his skin tugs at his attention like a pull from a fishhook lodged in his cheek, but the agony in his feet overwhelms his capacity for pain, and when he starts sobbing, the stinging in his feet are the reason. 

They hang his shackles from a hook on the ceiling, high enough that he can’t rest on the flats of his feet. For all that Tony can’t bear the thought of letting his weight sink onto his protesting feet, of setting his soles against the rough concrete floor, he knows that whatever they have planned for him next won’t leave him grateful. 

There’s one man who has barely spoken a word. His bare hands distinguish him among the men in their identical uniforms. His gloves are stuffed into his belt. There’s blood under his fingernails. Each time they need Tony moved, this man is the one to do it. He draws his fingertips down Tony’s torso. He runs one finger along Tony’s jaw. When Tony flinches, the man smiles and licks his lips. When one starts on Tony’s back with the cane, the quiet one wraps his hands around Tony’s waist to hold him steady against the force of the blows. 

The man with the cane is systematic. He avoids Tony’s ribs, softens the blows on Tony’s lower back. He favors Tony’s shoulders, at first, until a hard hit knocks Tony’s right arm out of its socket, loosing a yell that he bites back too late. Then the blows come harder, faster, against his ass and thighs, switching position before he can acclimate. 

Steve ordered this. 

The man with bare hands steps in closer, a leering smile on his face, leaning in so his breaths come hot and harsh in Tony’s ear, and this is where Steve wants them both. 

They don’t ask him any questions. They don’t make demands. They beat him until he screams and sobs, until his vision fizzes with stars, dims into black and back out again.

“He’s fading,” one of them says, sounding disappointed. 

“Then we’re done for now.” 

“I barely got a turn with him,” another voice says. It might be the man with bare hands; Tony’s eyes are too heavy to open. 

“Next time,” says the second voice, and the sounds of their booted feet trail out of the room. They take the light with them when they leave. 

* * *

The men have been gone for hours, though Tony can’t be sure how many; his vision will swim, then go dark, hurting too much to stay conscious, only for the pain to wake him again an indeterminate amount of time later. But he doesn’t think it could be much more than five or six. Usually what wakes him is the pulsing ache in the side with the dislocated shoulder, throbbing with every breath. 

The injury to his feet is painful and vast. The hurt of it doesn’t so much swallow him whole as slurp him down its gullet. It’s part of him now, and while it grows more excruciating each time he wobbles and stumbles on the balls of his feet, trying to keep the weight off his arms, it doesn’t ebb and flow like the pain in his side. The welts and bruises on his back and thighs sit on him like insects with needles for legs, but they’re a kind of hurt so familiar they become inconsequential. 

All of this should be familiar. He’s been tortured before. Arguably worse than this. He should know how to handle himself. 

But he can’t shake off the images of the man with bare hands, brushing the pads of his fingers over the spot where Tony was just caned, of Steve wearing their uniform, of Steve taunting him. 

Tony slips, the pad of one foot sliding off the floor and leaving him unsupported. It wrenches his arms, pain exploding across his injured side. A moan escapes him, and he blacks out. 

He comes to at the sound of the door and booted footsteps behind him. “S-Steve?” 

There’s no reply but the sound of another step. He doesn’t know why he’s so sure it’s Steve. It could be anyone. 

He feels warm breath over one shoulder, hears it growing louder as the person behind him leans in. A heavier exhale ghosts across his skin, and Tony jerks involuntarily, wrenching his side all over again, gasping at the shock of pain. He can hear the person’s smile form, a nearly inaudible crackle of saliva as their lips turn upward. A single fingertip lands near his shoulderblade and scuttles across Tony skin, following a mark left by the cane. It moves excruciatingly slow, making his hair stand on end. 

By the time they’ve finished tracing their way across Tony’s back, he’s shaking from the effort of keeping his feet under him and remaining still. 

“Tony,” the person sighs, and though their voice is too low to be recognizable, Tony knows with utter certainty that it’s Steve. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, biting his lip to keep his mouth shut. He tries to focus on breathing, on every point of his body that screams out in pain, but all it does is force his breath out in harsh pants. Steve finds a bead of dried blood on Tony’s back. His finger follows it up to the still-raw stripe it bled from, and this time it’s his blunt fingernail that drags languidly across the mark. Tony groans before he can stop himself. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s giving Steve exactly what he wants. 

Three more fingers join the first, scraping down Tony’s abused back. Then a second hand, grazing along Tony’s front, a fingernail scratching at his nipple. All that Tony gives away is his rabbiting heart and gasping breath. He can do this. Steve’s trying to provoke him, so he won’t react. It’s not even pain, not as Tony reckons these things. 

He reminds himself of this as Steve’s fingers skirt down his ass. Steve’s taking his time. Whatever he’s going to do, Tony wishes he would do it already, but that’s the point, isn’t it. That, and Steve is enjoying this. When he startles a reaction from Tony, he hums in satisfaction. His breath grows shorter. He digs his nails into the flesh of Tony’s ass, kneading at it, uncaring of the damage left from the cane. 

“Look at you,” Steve whispers, and leans in to lick a stripe along Tony’s neck. 

Tony shudders, a small moan escaping him. Steve chuckles and licks him again, slower this time, leaving Tony’s skin clammy and exposed. Steve’s hands make their way to Tony’s hips, his thumbs still driving into Tony’s ass. 

“I was watching them,” Steve says, his mouth centimeters from Tony’s ear. “Tony. The sounds you made.” 

The hands retreat. Tony knows Steve is far from finished, but his body is already sagging in relief. 

Sure enough, there’s a new sound coming from behind Tony now, one that Tony realizes with leaden dread is Steve unzipping his fly. The soft noises of Steve taking out his cock reach Tony over the pounding of his blood in his ears. He hears the flesh-slapping sounds of Steve jerking himself and Tony’s trembling turns to full-body shudders, wracking his shoulders and setting off the pain in his side all over again. Stars burst against his eyelids. Maybe he’ll black out again. Maybe he’ll pass out entirely. 

What started out as a welcome thought lurches and stutters in his mind as Tony imagines regaining consciousness to find his body littered with marks and stains he can’t remember Steve leaving on him. He pictures waking with blood running down the inside of his leg, with bruises in the back of his throat, with handprints on his skin, and not recognizing the violence done to him. 

Steve works himself as leisurely as he’d run his hands over Tony’s body. “I saved the footage,” he says. It takes Tony a moment to remember what he’s talking about. “I can show you, if you like.” 

The slapping sound of his hand on his cock grows wetter and faster. His fist grazes Tony’s skin now and then, a soft pressure against his ass that makes Tony whimper. Steve groans in response, like Tony’s moaning in pleasure, egging him on. 

“Oh,” Steve says breathlessly, his hand coming to cup Tony’s cheek from behind, “you’re crying.” 

He’s right. Tony’s bombarded with so many sensations—the hurt all over his body, varied in intensity and form, the chill air against his bare skin, the sound of Steve’s heavy breath and furtive thrusts into his own fist—that the hot tears escaping his eyes barely register. 

Tony expects to feel the press of Steve’s cock against his hole at any moment, but it doesn’t come. Instead Steve’s hand brushes occasionally brushes Tony's ass as if accidental, incidental.

At last Steve finishes, his come spurting across Tony’s ass and lower back, the strangled sound he makes loud in Tony’s ear. For a moment he stands there, as if to catch his breath, listening to Tony hold back sobs. He dips a finger into his rapidly cooling come, swirling it, then bringing a dollop of it to Tony’s lips. Tony clamps his mouth shut, but Steve pushes in anyway. 

He drops his hand, steps back, and zips himself up again. “See you soon,” he promises before he goes. 

* * *

When the door to his cell opens again, an indeterminate amount of time later, Tony expects it to be more men coming to hurt him. He’s almost looking forward to it. It would be a reprieve from his endlessly circling thoughts of Steve, and maybe his body will hurt in new and distracting ways. 

But a single set of footsteps enters the room, and Tony knows it’s Steve alone. 

He can’t stop the sob that escapes him. He can barely regret it, either; Steve liked the sounds he made, before. Maybe it’ll be over quicker this time. 

Steve does touch him, but not in the way he expects. He gets an arm under Tony’s knees and scoops him into his arms. It hurts, of course it does, because Tony’s back and thighs are still covered in welts, and the moment Steve takes the weight off Tony’s arms, every nerve ending in his body erupts in pain. All Tony can do is curl in on himself and bite back a scream. A wrenched, cut-off moan escapes him instead. 

Steve bundles Tony closer to his chest. The movement jostles Tony’s limbs, making him whimper as his shoulder protests. “Shh,” Steve says. He presses a delicate kiss to Tony’s forehead. “I’ve got you, Tony. They’re not going to hurt you any more.” 

Tony has to fight through a haze of pain to take in what Steve’s saying. He believes Steve immediately. It’s not that Tony’s pretending Steve’s someone else. It’s not that this man speaks with the voice of the one Tony loves. No, Tony knows it’s true because he has no doubt of Steve’s eagerness to hurt Tony himself. 

* * *

Steve carries Tony to a suite of rooms in another part of the helicarrier. These are large and imposing, on a grander scale than where Steve brought him before, and richly decorated in Hydra green. 

He sets Tony down gently on a large bed, making sure Tony has cushions propping him against the headboard. He must see Tony wincing from the light, because he draws the curtains and dims the overhead lights before he leaves the bedroom. 

Tony doesn’t have the strength to move. Even shifting his weight so he settles against the bedding ignites his body in a fresh wave of pain. He grits his teeth against it and tries not to think about what’s coming next. 

But what happens next is that Steve returns with a mug of broth and a glass of water. He helps Tony drink both, petting Tony’s hair and watching him like Tony’s pained movements are mesmerizing. 

He helps Tony use the restroom. He cleans Tony’s cuts, scrapes, and welts, and even bandages them in places. He pops Tony’s shoulder back into place. When Tony cries and shudders, Steve strokes his face, and when Tony tries to curl into a ball, Steve pulls him open like he’s prying a stubborn root from the dirt. He brings Tony more food, and feeds it to him a bite at a time like a child. 

When Tony protests, Steve hits him. 

He’s utterly calm when he does it. Tony never thought he’d miss the anger that used to accompany Steve’s violence. 

Tony eats the rest with a split lip, Steve’s arm around his waist holding him close. 

He almost speaks when Steve starts undressing. But he doesn’t know what purpose it would serve. Antagonizing him? Goading him? Begging him not to touch Tony again? 

Steve pulls back the bedcovers and lays down next to Tony. He rolls to his side and slings an arm over Tony’s hips, its weight holding him in place. “Let me know if you need anything,” Steve says, like he’s heading to the kitchen for a glass of water and wants to know if Tony needs a refill of coffee. “I’m right here.” 

* * *

Tony’s jostled awake by Steve’s hands on him. He tries to pull away and Steve takes hold of his injured shoulder and twists it until Tony screams. 

Steve arranges Tony so he sits with his legs hanging off the bed, his wounded feet well away from the floor. Steve sits behind him, high on his knees, and wraps his hands around Tony’s neck. Tony’s thoughts white out. He thinks again of the reprieve unconsciousness offers, then again of what Steve might do with his body while he’s absent.

“What will I do with you?” Steve says, drawing his hands back and running his fingertips along the circumference of Tony’s neck, then forward. His fingers thread together and then draw back again, his thumbs grazing Tony’s jawline. “There are so many ways I want to touch you.” His voice is quiet and soft, as deceptive as the gentle caress of his hands along Tony’s neck. 

“You’re shaking,” Steve says. Tony can hear the smile in his voice. He grabs Tony by the hair as he crowds closer. His other hand rests on Tony’s throat. It feels big enough to wrap all the way around his neck. Tony swallows against it, and Steve leans over to kiss him. 

There’s a slow, brutal urgency in Steve’s kiss, in the way his teeth scrape Tony’s lip, re-opening the cut there. The hand on Tony’s neck contracts slightly, a hint of promised violence. 

“Tony,” Steve says, pulling away and lapping at the saliva running down Tony’s chin, “c’mon. You don’t have to make things difficult. Let’s have some fun, huh?” 

He releases Tony’s throat. Tony can see his face now, read the hunger there. “I have a headache.” 

“Funny.” Steve slaps him across the face, rattling his jaw together. Before Tony can prepare himself, Steve hits him again, knocking his head in the opposite direction. “I don’t need your participation.” 

“Then get a sex toy,” Tony says, tasting blood. 

“But I already have one.” Steve grins and snakes a hand down Tony’s arm. “It even has my name on it.” 

He lifts Tony’s wrist in his hand, clamping down on his soulmark. Tony tries to jerk away. His body tenses at the new contact—then relaxes. He’s lightheaded. Sated. Safe. No. No, this can’t be happening, he’s none of those things. It’s a trick his body’s playing on him. This isn’t Steve. It isn’t. 

“Don’t,” he croaks, still trying to tug his hand away. He doesn’t think Steve will stop, not any of this, no matter what Tony says, but part of him wants to see how Steve will respond. 

Steve shoves Tony onto his back, sits on his chest, and pries his mouth open. He settles his weight there, watching Tony’s face for the pain to hit him. Tony tries to brace himself, but Steve lifts Tony’s arm above his head and then Tony can’t stop from yelling—expelling the only protest his body can muster against the throbbing pain radiating from his shoulder. Steve grabs Tony’s chin, holding his mouth open so he can slam his cock down Tony’s throat. 

Steve shifts his weight onto his knees, relieving the weight on Tony’s chest and shoulders. His hands fall to Tony’s wrists, pinning them as he rocks slowly against Tony’s mouth. Tony’s shoulder isn’t ready for his arm to do anything but hang limply at his side, and now Steve is holding it in place, letting it take his weight. Agony wells up inside him, spreading into his skull and across his vision until everything dims. 

The darkness recedes too soon. Reality returns, harsh and bright. Above him, Steve watches Tony with avid fascination. “Back with me?” he asks, smiling wide, when he sees clarity return to Tony’s eyes. The pace of his thrusts is unchanged. 

All Tony can do is breathe around Steve’s cock as it slides in and out of him. Steve’s head is thrown back, his expression beatific, and Tony tries not to choke with the awareness that the real Steve has never touched him this way. The one Tony wants has never wanted him. It’s only this sadistic facsimile who delights in using him this way, and if it weren’t for their soulmarks, his interest in Tony would be in how easy Tony is to hurt, and nothing more. 

Tony can’t regret Steve. He refuses. Not the real one. He won’t. 

Steve’s rhythm finally speeds up, but Tony doesn’t have it in him to be relieved. Steve will stay hard. He can keep fucking Tony’s face for hours, if he wants. 

Steve pulls out before he climaxes to splash Tony’s face with his come, then bend down and lick it off. “You’re a mess,” he remarks as he laps at Tony’s skin. 

Tony meets his eyes blankly. Steve clucks his tongue, but doesn’t push it for now. Tony’s going to pay for not replying. But Tony would pay for anything he said, anyway. 

Steve climbs down Tony’s body, stroking his own cock. He kicks Tony’s knees apart and kneels between them. He presses a dry finger between Tony’s cheeks, and Tony whimpers. It hasn’t even brushed against his hole yet. He should be stronger than this. But Steve undoes him. He always has. 

Steve laughs and shoves two fingers inside, making Tony yell and writhe. “Hold still,” Steve admonishes, scissoring his fingers, no longer taking his time. 

Tony only obeys because trying to twist away wrenches his injured side. A new kind of hopelessness swells inside him. Steve curls Tony’s knees into his chest, presses the head of his cock against Tony’s crease, then shoves inside, only Tony’s saliva smoothing the way. 

Tony screams. Steve lowers himself down so their chests are flush, humming in satisfaction. He covers Tony’s forearms with his own, pinning him completely, and wraps two fingers around Tony’s wrist, covering Tony’s soulmark. “He had your mark, too,” Steve says, mildly, like he’s not fucking Tony raw. 

Tony finds his breath, barely. He doesn't know if he could if not for the false messages his soulmark is sending him—safe, home, sated, Steve. “You’re lying.” 

“Why would I lie?” 

Tony turns his head away, unwilling to close his eyes and unable to look Steve in the face. The throbbing in his side settles into a rhythm with Steve’s unhurried thrusting. 

“He loved you, you know. Even when you fought.” 

“Stop it.” 

Steve releases Tony’s wrist to take hold of his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “He loved you and admired you, but it wasn’t enough. He knew he couldn’t trust you. You’d only hurt him and use him, wouldn’t you?” 

“What do you _want_?” Tony knows he sounds desperate. In this moment, he’ll beg and bleed and split himself open for Steve’s cock rather than listen to this.

“Don’t worry, Tony,” Steve croons. “I’m here now, and I like you just the way you are.” He mouths along Tony’s jaw. “The man he wanted you to be wouldn’t know what to do with the power I’m offering you.” 

“Offering?” Tony says, forcing himself to speak through the pain. “Y-You haven’t offered anything. Just taken.” 

“You’re going to give in eventually. Or I’ll make you. Either way, I’ll have you, your cunningness, your ruthlessness.” 

“And you th-think” —a groan cuts him off as Steve ploughs into him, unrelenting— “ _you_ could trust me?” 

“You won’t have a choice. You can’t hide anything from me. You can’t manipulate me the way you did him.” Steve sounds almost earnest. “He didn’t deserve you. He wanted to change you. But I know you better. I appreciate you.” 

“Appreciate?” Tony sneers. “Is that what this is?” 

Steve’s hand wraps around Tony’s throat and sinks the weight of his forearm onto Tony’s chest. The spasm of pain in Tony’s shoulder knocks the wind out of him even as the grip on his neck tightens. Steve drives into him harder, faster, rocking Tony’s whole body. 

“This is me taking what’s mine,” Steve growls. “Isn’t that what you always wanted, Tony? To be mine?” 

Steve squeezes Tony’s throat until Tony blacks out again, then shudders and comes as he releases his hand and Tony coughs and gasps for breath. He doesn’t pause. Nor does he slow. He keeps up his brutal pace, grinding their bodies together, pushing and pushing into Tony until Tony feels like this is just another wound Steve has given him, another place where his flesh has been parted and pierced—like his body is nothing but a target for Steve’s malice and gratification.

* * *

Steve comes twice more like that, buried inside of Tony, cutting off Tony’s air just to feel Tony shudder and clench around him. When he finishes he showers alone, dresses, and leaves Tony there, messy and naked and barely clinging to consciousness. Steve doesn’t bother with restraints. He doesn’t need them; Tony can’t walk on his own. 

It’s dark outside the bedroom windows when Steve returns. He washes Tony again, feeds him, strokes his hair. He’s still in his uniform, only removing his gloves when he needs to get his hands wet. 

After Tony’s eaten, Steve sits and watches him. The smell of blood and sex overpowers the scent of ammonia. The pain is ebbing, replaced by a tide of white noise. Tony’s eyelids are heavy. His mind slows and stretches like taffy. “You drugged me,” he says, shaking his head against the grogginess. 

“Rest,” Steve says. 

In the morning, Tony wakes to Steve grinding against Tony’s groin. But he doesn’t force Tony to participate further, doesn’t penetrate him. He just rolls his hips, pressing his hard cock to Tony’s skin. Tony’s mouth is dry and his head is cottony. His limbs are sluggish, anesthetized by drugs and remembered pain. He cries as Steve ruts against him, forgetting why he’d been trying not to. 

Steve leaves after helping Tony with the routine maintenance of his body. Tony stays there, sprawled on Steve’s bed, too weak to move, until the drugs in his breakfast flood his mind. 

Several days pass like this, Steve caring for Tony like a pet, leaving him drugged and naked, and then using his body for his own gratification. He lets Tony heal, but his concern doesn’t stop him from fucking Tony’s thighs or rubbing himself off against Tony’s ass. 

On the third day he takes Tony’s mouth again. 

On the fourth day, Tony fights through the haze of drugs and pushes himself to his feet. He collapses from pain seconds later, and hours later Steve finds him groaning on the floor. He hauls Tony up, tosses him on the bed, and beats him with his belt until the marks from the knife and cane are red and raised once more, and Tony bleeds with fresh cuts. 

Tony stops trying to keep time. Steve hits him when he misbehaves. When Tony refuses Steve’s urgings to hail Hydra, he whips Tony’s feet. When Tony refuses to speak entirely, he hurts Tony until he screams. 

Soon Steve fucks him again, though this time he opens Tony up slowly, fingers slippery, like this injury alone is a line he’s refusing to cross, and when he leaves, Tony is still picking himself up, come and lube sliding down his thighs. 

* * *

Tony thinks it might be nighttime. He doesn’t move when he hears Steve approach; Steve will arrange him however he likes, regardless of what Tony does. Tony doesn’t flinch, either. It’s a minor victory, but he’ll take it. 

“Tony, look.” 

Tony doesn’t move. He’s not sure his body can feel worse than it already does. Steve’s going to hurt him. Steve’s going to touch him. Screaming, crying, begging. Acquiescing. It doesn’t make a difference. 

Steve grabs Tony by the hair and jerks him up, forcing Tony to face him. In his other hand is a Cosmic Cube. 

Tony can still feel dread, after all. 

He knows what Steve can do with this. What he can make Tony do, make Tony feel. What he can turn Tony into. What he can turn the world into. 

Tony should try to grab it. Use it before Steve can. 

He can barely lift his arms. His body thrums, reminding him of every place Steve’s hurt him with each inhalation. He still can’t walk unassisted. Some hero he is. Tony became Iron Man because he wanted to be like Steve. But maybe Steve was never even real. 

“What are you going to do?” Tony asks. 

He doesn’t expect Steve to give him a real answer. “So many things.” Steve chuckles. “First, I’m going to fix you. We’ll take care of the rest together.” 

* * *

“Did you mean it?” Steve asked, making Tony bristle. “When you said you would trust me, and what I decided. Did you mean it?” 

“Yes,” Tony said. For all his wariness, he meant it. He’d faced Steve as an enemy too many times. He refused to do it again. 

Steve chewed on his lips, almost nervous, searching Tony's face. “There’s something I want to show you.” 

_Of course_ , Tony didn’t have time to say before Steve tugged the glove off his right hand. 

Tony froze, wide-eyed, heart racing. He knew what he wanted this to mean. He couldn’t think of what else it possibly could. But it had to mean something else. Tony couldn’t be—it made sense, Tony having Steve’s mark and Steve not having his—but Steve folded the sleeve of his uniform back, and then his hand went to the cuff around his wrist, and there was Tony’s name, written into his skin. 

“You have mine,” Steve said, but there was no question in it. It sounded like, _You're mine_ , and if Tony had felt joy like this before, he didn’t remember it. “Don't you.” 

“Of course I do.” Tony’s voice stayed steady, but his hand wasn’t as he reached out and undid his own cuff. 

Steve stared, transfixed, at his name on Tony's wrist. Tony set out to catalogue and memorize every minute detail of Steve's face. The angle of the sun, the dust motes in the air, the sound of Steve’s breath. He never wanted to forget this. And it staved off the fear that this was a dream. 

“Do you—” Steve faltered. Tony wanted to tell him he never had to worry ever again, not when it came to Tony. “Do you want—” 

“Yes.” 

“I didn't finish,” Steve said with a chuckle, his eyes vivid and twinkling. 

“Whatever you want. I mean it.” 

“I want you to be mine.” 

Tony stepped into Steve's arms. Steve held him close and let Tony melt against him. “I always have been.” 

* * *

Tony’s eyelashes flutter as the world reorients and he comes back to himself. He stretches, relishing the movement. His wounds are gone, his breath comes easier, his mind moves faster. Steve is watching him. 

“Hail Hydra,” Tony says, and he knows he sounds like he means it. His smile is entirely sincere. 

It’s been years since Steve’s looked so happy. He’s so willing to be misled. How pathetic. Tony’s smile widens. 

Hydra’s systems have no defense against a technopath. By the time Steve’s pulled Tony into a kiss, Tony has full control of the helicarrier and its security systems. He lets Steve guide their mouths and then their bodies, lays back and lets Steve run his hands over Tony’s freshly healed skin. Tony schools his expression into one of delight and awe. It’s easy to replicate the pitiful gratitude and wonderment of his past, lesser self. 

Tony slips a thumb under Steve’s wrist-cuff, and Steve shudders. Tony grins in satisfaction; they’re still soulmates, of course. He’s sure now that they always have been. Certainly, no matter what Steve becomes in the future, he’ll belong to Tony. 

“Please,” Tony says, panting, internally reviewing the helicarrier’s security footage from the past week. He needs to know what Steve’s been up to. What Steve’s going to ask him for. “Tell me what you want. Let me make you feel good.” There are so many vulnerabilities in the helicarrier’s systems. He’ll have a bounty of opportunities to disable or destroy it when he needs to. “Thank you for giving me this chance. I’ll do whatever you want, whatever Hydra needs me to. You’ll see.” 

He’ll let Steve think he has the upper hand for now. That Tony’s weak and human and ready to be led. There’s certainly no need to mention Extremis. Steve’s shown his hand: he wants Tony on his side. Tony can play at that, for now. 

Leave it to Steve to repeat Red Skull’s mistakes all over again. Tony wonders what Steve asked the Cube for. A soulmate worthy of the Hydra Supreme Leader, perhaps. Whatever it was, he’s not expecting Tony’s best self. He’s not even expecting an equal—let alone someone superior. 

“Stay with me,” Steve says. 

He has no idea what Tony’s going to do to him. 

**Author's Note:**

> On the warnings: There is both dubiously consensual sex and rape in this fic. There is no consensual sex. I'm not sure what to say about the violence, but all internal organs stay internal, if that helps clarify things. Tony's being hurt to cause pain, not major injury. Bones are dislocated and broken. If you have questions about these or any other warnings leave me a comment, or message me after author reveals. 
> 
> I got confused about Tony's RT while working on this -- mostly due to how Tony's drawn in various comics around this time, and a dearth of shirtless scenes for him -- which is why it's not mentioned in this story. It was only after getting this beta'ed and submitted that I realized that, yeah, he had it leading up to the end of CWII. Let's just pretend that Tony had an off-page moment of panic noticing it was gone and then concluded that he stopped needing it either during his "missing time" or from whatever magic helped bring him back. 
> 
> The title for this story comes from a Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds song of the same name. (Although the song is about being dead and buried, so, not at all what the story is about.)
> 
> [Tumblr post for the fic](https://dirigibleplumbing.tumblr.com/post/639785492581384192/read-the-fic-on-ao3-fandom-616-pairings). Also check out [my tumblr](https://dirigibleplumbing.tumblr.com/), where I post writing updates, writing snippets, occasional random updates about my life, lots of Steve/Tony and Will/Hannibal reblogs, an increasing amount of Untamed reblogs, and photos of gothic cathedrals.


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